BBCSH 'Flirting'
by tigersilver
Summary: A small exercise in definitions, common, as applied by a genius, uncommon.


Author: tigersilver  
Rating: Undecided  
Pairing: S/J  
Warnings/Summary: A small exercise in definitions, common, as applied by a genius, uncommon. Several parts, likely, as I go..

BBCSH 'Flirting'

There's this thing people do—boring people, tedious people—which requires further exploration, immediately.

With all his expertise in disguises and at slapping on an act instantaneously, Sherlock is quite certain he can manage it, though.

First, he needs to ramp up the casual touching. And to a specific purpose. There should be chat, of the easy sort. He will require all of his flatmate's attention. Indeed, he should ought to be the sole subject of it, so no other distractions are to be allowed. At home, then, and in some state of his usual undress, and John should be taken off-guard, as it were. They can speak of Sherlock's skull, which has unfortunately gone missing again. John always likes to be asked for his help and assistance, so that will be flattering for him.

It will help to understand, though, what it is exactly he, Sherlock, is seeking to accomplish. As he's not totally clear on it. Boring people can be most confusing, actually. Fortunately his mobile is right there. For once.

His unparalleled Google-fu provides him this definition, lifted straight from Merriam Webster verbatim, not that he really needs it to summon up such basic data as this:

_'flirting': present participle of 'flirt' (Verb)_

_Verb:_

_[To] Behave as though attracted to or trying to attract someone, but without serious intentions: "it amused him to flirt with her"._

_[To] Experiment with or show a superficial interest in (an idea, activity, or movement) without committing oneself to it seriously._

From first look-over, Sherlock decides this 'flirting' may very well suit him straight down to the ground. Certainly, it's an audacious beginning, and one he can make later use of, in easy stages.

No time like the present, then. As time _is_ growing short.

The mobile is cast aside and the field of valour achieved in several smooth strides, never mind the low table flipped over or the pile of books and papers sliding down after he's progressed through the sitting room and into the kitchenette.

John, most wonderfully, is standing at the counter, by the fridge and near the sink, making nasal noises that are very vaguely musical and paying Sherlock no mind. It's but the work of an agile sidestepping motion and a general bending-in of spine and head to come up behind his flatmate and prevent his escape. Two hands slapped on the countertop—still horribly damp—seal the deal.

Scene set, then. Commence 'flirting'.

"John," Sherlock says mildly, in just that most coaxing tone of voice he's cultivated for trying times such as these. "John, Mrs Hudson has hidden away my skull again." He hustles up as close as he can manage to his flatmate, barely allowing the good doctor to spin about so they may face one another, and positively draping himself all about him but without actually touching. His body heat is touching John's body heat, that's the trick, and Sherlock is pleased he's refined this tactic over a few encounters with suspects and/or witnesses, as this seems to be even more effective than a simple snag of an elbow and a small peremptory shaking. "Would you?" he purrs, angling an eyebrow upwards for emphasis, "…could you? Possibly enquire after it? For me. Before you go off."

"What? Sherlock?" His flatmate snorts softly, and makes an abortive move to the one side, but the triangulation Sherlock has him physically entrapped within prevents any escape without making far too big a fuss of it. "Not again."

"But I need it, John," Sherlock wheedles and leans in another degree or three, so his huff of faintly helpless exasperation ruffles John's forelock. He bats his lashes for good measure. "You're off to Cardiff; I'll have no one to talk to."

Their gazes lock as John stares upwards, leaning as casually as he can back against the lip of the swept-clean counter. Sherlock knows John's shamming; his flatmate's eyes are wide and navy-dark, and there's a visible pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. Too, John licks his lips several times, and clearly is just one step from outright nibbling upon his lower one in nervousness. It's not 'casual' at all, this moment as it's playing out. John is both anxious and a bit sexually aroused by the proximity. Tense, like, and automatically moving into a flight or fight stance.

He could twist either way, naturally, and Sherlock's intention is of course to coax him into staying nearby. Excessively nearby, so Sherlock can continue to exude his wiles upon John's hopefully receptive libido. Per plan, if he can train John up to lowering those silly defenses of his, this course of action (as yet not entirely defined) will all move forward to fruition more smoothly.

"Um."

And…? Not 'anxiety', Sherlock notes, so much but a case of nerves. John, his John, is nervous.

"Ah," Sherlock breathes, startled. "Er?"

So far as he knows, he has never yet succeeded—nor wished to, really—in rendering his flatmate a nervous wreck. That is _not_ the result he is intending!

The result he was intending is terribly clear in his mind's eye, but then—it is also rapidly becoming less so.

There's a wee shock.

"But."

"Sherlock," John replies carefully, ignoring Sherlock's interjection, and only after a rather tediously long drawn-out moment of not-responding, _and then too, _as if speaking to a wild creature, one he must handle with kid gloves and gingerly at that. "You don't really need that old thing. I'll have my laptop with me; I always do, and you can also text me any time you like. Or Skype. Or whatever. Send a bloody telegram, Sherlock; I don't care."

He pauses, blinking at Sherlock for a second or two, and Sherlock absently admires the darker blond shade of John's eyelashes, and how they rim his interestingly several-shaded but mostly blue eyes most fetchingly. Even as he ponders why John would ever suggest using such an archaic method as a telegram to communicate. Bugger, Sherlock would top himself if he had to rely on those for his work!

Poor John. He is an idiot. However, he is also Sherlock's idiot, and thus allowances must be made.

In a better mood, Sherlock plies John with all of his most intense sort of attention, and enjoys the resultant flicker of those lashes.

There! Palpable hit! The flirtation is proceeding, just as he knew it would.

"Except of course for when I'm sleeping, Sherlock." The man tilts his head at Sherlock, and with a gentle shake of his determined jaw to indicate a certain amount of pre-disapproval for Sherlock. About Sherlock, rather; over him. Specifically: 'preemptive', plus 'disapproval', as in John is well aware Sherlock can and will wake him from a sound sleep, if he should deem it necessary. And that this exact same instance will likely occur during John's imminent run down to Cardiff, this very night, then. And he understands it will happen, but does not have to like it, not a bit. Nor appreciate the fore-knowledge it will happen. So, yes: _pre_-disapproval.

Gah! Flirtation abruptly capsized! May Day, May Day! _Not_ the mood Sherlock is hoping to establish at all.

Sherlock snorts, narrowing his eyes at his friend. In a lightning-quick spate of temper, really.

This would all be so much the easier if John would—if John could! Simply—just!

THINK.

Well…to be just, more if John would cease being distracted by what was obviously only a light and largely diversionary conversational tactic and take heed that Sherlock's basically cornered him! Intimately.

John has noticed that; yes, of course, but he seems to be missing the point of such intimacy entirely.

Sherlock sighs, his temper fleeing away as if it had never been. Really, his prior conclusion is completely off the mark. It cannot be all that easy nor comfortable to exist as a normal, regular person, at all! Far too many crucial clues as to behavour are disregarded, to the detriment of all human existence, probably, and his specific flatmate's existence in particular. John is clearly lacking. To wit, if John requires sociability in the form of an attractive and willing companion, he should simply avail himself of Sherlock.

Who is—or can be, if he bothers himself—more than reasonably attractive _and _sociable. And companionable…and made easily 'available', on several levels of the word's meaning. Just ask him—he'll tell you.

Sherlock is brought back to himself by John's voice, steady as anything, and kind enough, really, even as he's telling Sherlock he'll not cooperate. "So, no," he says. "I'm not about to ask her for you. If you really believe you need that bloody thing back in the flat so much, then ask her yourself. While I'm gone, as I don't want to stuck in the midst of it, Sherlock."

It's all relayed to Sherlock's' ears in John's own peculiar 'I'm not humouring you, Sherlock; not this time, so kindly sod off, cheers, mate' voice, which he employs on Sherlock with some regularity. That Voice. Bah!

It is—ergo—a damning end to this neophyte flirtation Sherlock is attempting valiantly to establish, and his rising hopes have just been dealt their death knell.

Bugger. Bugger all!

Inwardly, Sherlock curses. Damn and blast! The momentary physical weakness John had revealed him for a split-second has already been overlaid by the practicalities of the missing skull. Clearly his flatmate has recovered all too swiftly; Sherlock feels stymied, and consequently irked.

Naturally enough.

"No, John!" Sherlock takes refuge in a form of mild bluster, and eases back, as the moment of calculated flirtation has sadly passed; there's no point now. He'll have to wait upon John's return from Cardiff and hope that the idiot man doesn't take up with someone there in the interim. Which he wouldn't, for a blink of an eye, put past him, the randy little bugger. "I need _you _to ask; you're the only one she'll give it to."

Sherlock is beginning to regret he was the one suggested John go to Cardifff. Likely they both should go and it's not too late to put that plan in action. The taxi he's just noticed waiting about outside can wait a few minutes longer, can't it? He can throw an overnight bag together in a matter of a few very short moments.

However, before he's the chance to suggest it, his flatmate is continuing on, inexorably. In _that_ Voice.

"No, nope," John retorts firmly, and in an amazing lithe twist of hip and opposing shoulder, he's slid himself out from between Sherlock's body and the countertop and taken refuge on the other side of the kitchenette's cluttered table. "No, I'm going. Cab's waiting, and has been, this age. Be good as you can, Sherlock, and don't insult Lestrade or anyone else important or that I have to talk to again or deal with, at any time, ever, and by all means, _do _try to not bother Mrs Hudson too much over that silly skull of yours while I'm gone." John has one foot out the door and is catching up his bag and shrugging on his coat before Sherlock can do more than blink at him. "Right," he says, nodding pleasantly from the doorway leading to the staircase. "Be back before you know it, you great tit. Stay out of trouble, will you?"

"Wait, John!"

Sherlock scowls at the abruptly empty kitchen and straight through the pass-way that provides him view of the equally deserted sitting room. The front door slams at the bottom of the stairwell, and he can just hear John's voice in the distance, carrying through the open window, hailing his waiting cabbie and chatting the bloke up over the inclement weather.

Huh! What a disappointment _that_ was, wasn't it?

He grits his teeth, growling at the quiet, abhorring it. Which is unbearable, boring and deadly dull. Worse even than before, when John was still present, humming to himself in the kitchen as he prepared to take off for his trip and for whatever reason sponging down every single surface.

Obviously Sherlock's been going at this from all the wrong angles. That, or his Google-fu is failing him, and that is a thought Sherlock absolutely will not countenance. Or..

..Maybe it's not 'flirtation' he's been looking for, then? Wrong idea. Wrong word. Not helpful, as demonstrated.

Right—no. Time to re-attack the problem from another angle.

"_Mrs_ Hudson!" Sherlock bellows, tromping over to the open door with some alacrity. No time like the present, as he has nothing—simply nothing—better to do. "_MRS HUDSON_? I find I am in need of your opinion on something! **MRS HUDSON**!"

TBC…


End file.
